


The Kingfisher Boy

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-06
Updated: 2005-12-06
Packaged: 2019-01-19 14:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12411753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: I have little use for such useless information, but there it is. The finest evidence of the course of my life. I am the repository of impractical erudition and faithless acts.





	The Kingfisher Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Title:** The Kingfisher Boy [ I / I ]  
 **Author:** **_carondelet_** // **_carondelet11_**  
 **Character(s) / Pairing:** Remus Lupin  
 **Rating:** PG-13 (adult situations; language)  
 **Word Count:** 2,448  
 **Spoilers:** Books 1-5  
 **Summary:** I have little use for such useless information, but there it is. The finest evidence of the course of my life. I am the repository of impractical erudition and faithless acts.  
 **Notes:** originally published 07 June 2005 // 2211  
 **Author's Notes:** this is not entirely canonical and is rather self-indulgently morose (but for good reason)  
 **Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred.

 

**_____________________________________**

**THE KINGFISHER BOY**

[] AND HERE I AM SINGING, WISH YOU WERE HERE

**_____________________________________**

 

**In one text,** he is named Bron.

In another, he is named Anfortas.

In yet another, he is named Pelles.

Yet another lays claim to his being Joseph of Armiathea.

He was the Fisher King. He could have been the Maimed King.

Sir Percivale, with what would nowadays been deemed an insignificant failure, caused the Fisher King pain. Unnecessary pain.

I am familiar with such conditions. Unnecessary pain. Yes, I am familiar.

I am not neither a fisherman nor a king. The best that I could claim is being the Kingfisher Boy. No, I am no king; I am, however, maimed.

I once was a professor. A teacher. I miss it, my vocation. I miss many things.

I miss...yes. I am always missing, amn’t I. Missing and regretting and wallowing in my guilt.

For such indulgences I cry bitter tears.

I always found it easier to weep than to rage.

I left the anger for others.

For my inadequacies I cry simple tears.

I cry for those whom I wish were here.

I can tell you the tale of the Fisher King. I can tell you many tales of many things.

I have little use for such useless information, but there it is. The finest evidence of the course of my life. I am the repository of impractical erudition and faithless acts.

Wasted knowledge, a gift for only the grave.

Oh, I beg your pardon, how utterly rude of me. How do you do? I’m Remus John Lupin. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Would you mind if I told you a story?

**ˆž**

**There seems to** be something in the way of a...school of thought, if you might pardon the pun, as to who in our class had affections for our Head Girl, one Miss Lily Evans.

This school of thought seems to have been handed down at Hogwarts, like our legacy of the Marauders’ Map. This way of thinking has become something of a mainstay, much like the Sorting Hat and the Great Feast and winding up old Filchy by getting Moaning Myrtle to flood the girls' loo.

For some reason, many students, former and current, have been given to entertaining the notion that Severus Snape was enamoured of Lily.

Granted, Lily was a charming woman, marvellous in many ways, and she did indeed have something of a following (horrible, horrible, that is too gauche a term), but Severus?

_Him?_

Mind you, I should have been a better Prefect, no, strike that, a better person all round and should have put a stop or at least given Severus a reprieve from the constant thrashing he endured from James and Sirius, but I do not think that Severus is capable of having any fluttering in his greasy black heart for anyone, especially someone that he on numerous occasions referred to as being a “Mudblood”�.

No, the social gadflies of the time, of the there and then and of the here and now are quite incorrect in that.

Severus could never have held a liking for Lily. Never.

James was unequivocally fond of her. Relentlessly so. He was a man possessed. I do believe that was the initial stimulus which led to their courtship. He was besotted, she was sceptical, and that drove him nutters.

Sometimes he could be so simple.

The more she rebuffed his advances, the more he pressed. Even when she dated other boys, he persisted. He was, as much as James Potter could be, respectful of her relationships, but he was always there, always hinting, always reminding her that, _hem hem_ , he was far more suitable for her than _Whatshisname_.

After a while, likely more to do with helping him gain his goal and thereby shutting him up than being altruistic, Sirius Black would second James in his pursuit of Lily. Potter’s a decent bloke, once you get to know him, get past the Jamie the Chaser feint and the Prongs the Marauder routine, _hem hem_.

Thanks to the constantly vigilant ministrations of Messrs Potter and Black, Lily went through about five boyfriends from Fifth Year through Sixth Year.

Yes, there were quite a few of us who were taken by Lily.

Oh dear.

I did say us, didn’t I.

Ah, well, there it is.

I suppose I shall have to surrender myself to innumerable clichés now.

But I am a cliché, amn’t I. I am the most painfully awkward illustration of it.

Poor old Lupin, Loony Moony Lupin, always sad, always melancholy, always sick, always alone.

Always pining, in secret, ever in secret. I have so many secrets. I have kept so many secrets. All deep within my breast. There are secrets there still, hiding behind the beat of my heart. When my memories stir, I can feel the secrets, sharp against me.

My memories are my secrets. My secrets are my memories. Both comprise my garland of shame, my crown of thorns.

The pain from those thorns, the many memories and secrets associated with, on some eve’s they are my only delight.

It amazes me that, despite this acutely personal pronouncement, you have not turned your back nor have you walked away.

Yet. I should add that particular adverb. Yet.

**ˆž**

**I’ve had a** number of fancies over the years.

I used to fancy Emmeline Vance. We even dated for a bit. Then we stopped and she began dating the greater Prewett.

I once fancied Alice Pearson. But she had already been taken with Frank Longbottom.

I both fancied and feared Dorcas Meadowes. Dorcas wasn’t taken with anyone and wouldn’t let anyone close to her.

I loved Lily Evans.

I don’t suppose you might have a violin upon you? I do feel that this is about where the solo should come in.

I did love her. In my fashion. As much as I could when we were both claimed by others.

Lily was spoken for, one after the other, until, finally, she and James realised what the rest of Hogwarts knew from at least the start of Fifth Year — they were falling for one another.

I had been claimed long ago by someone detached and cruel and without forgiveness. I can never be...

Well. It was just not meant to be. It’s never meant to be. No, not for me. Not for Loony Lupin. I can’t be intimate with another. Not for the long-term, at any rate. Certainly not during my time of the month.

Oh, I am sorry. I don’t mean it quite like that. You see...yes, and this is where events take a turn for the dicey.

I am a werewolf.

There it is. Yes. I am a werewolf.

I’m married to the moon. A child groom, you see. Unwillingly wed at a tender age.

So, now I hope that you can understand what I mean when I ask you, how in the world could I wish to be with Lily Evans? Even if she and James weren’t together, how could I wish for such a thing? Wish never to be apart from her? Wish to be close to her? Wish for such things when, at the close of day, when the sun has fallen and the moonrise cloaks the Forbidden Forest in shadow play, how could I wish for Lily’s love?

Of course, I wish for such a thing still. That is how pathetic I am at times. I imagine that I will wish for such an awful thing ‘til the last beat of my heart.

Here and now, my soul cries out for continuing to entertain such a betrayal. The naked bones of my guilt echo in the void that is the space within my heart, the place where the love of my friends, my adopted brothers, my unrequited love, should reside. Such feelings should be there and not trapped in the morass of my regret.

How is it that still you do not walk away? How is it that you don’t step away from me? I am staggered.

I did tell you that I am pathetic at times, did I not?

**ˆž**

**I daren’t ask** you if you believe in the afterlife. That would be terrifically insensitive of me.

I once believed in heaven. I once thought that I had found it.

But I lost it. Or, rather, it lost me.

I thought that I could sustain myself, could convince myself that just to see Lily happy was enough. To know that she was loved and to be happy for her and for one of my best mates, James, that it was enough. That it was something akin to heaven, as close as I was likely to get.

I thought that I could be better than I was.

I thought that I had rationalised and that I had considered all there was in terms of my feelings for Lily. That it was safe because she was already spoken for. It is always safer, falling into unrequited love. There is no fear of rejection because the rejection is implicit. There is no acceptance because it has been placed far, far out of reach. That it was understandable because of her kindness and her friendship to me. That due to her very nature and the ease with which we were able to communicate, that it was perfectly understandable that I would be susceptible to misconstruing or developing that into a love for her. That, due to my condition and the loneliness inherent, that anyone who was capable of reaching me and who was unafraid of who and what I was I would be prone to falling for such a woman.

I thought that I had covered it all. That I’d thought of all there was. But I had not thought of enough.

I thought that I had fully realised that most everything connected to my feelings for Lily were not what they seemed. It merely felt and looked like love, it wasn’t really so. I was only seeing the things that I wanted to see.

There were times in witnessing the happiness that James and Lily shared that I wished I could just fly away. Hop on my broom and go some place. Float away.

Before I said the words I had to, was bound by friendship and duty and honour and morality to, before I let slip the words I had to resist.

I wanted to fly away. Float away. Run away. Sigh. Breathe. Forget.

I didn’t want to remember then. I don’t want to remember now.

You think you know it, you think you are used to it, but no, the memories, the feelings, they use you.

I saw so many things...missed out on so many opportunities...

I couldn’t cry over losing her. I turned away instead.

I didn’t want to see it after a while. I didn’t want to know the pain.

I just wanted to leave yesterday far behind me.

I did want to leave. I wanted another life. I’ve wanted another life since I was a boy. But after I was struck, literally struck by the realisation that my feelings for Lily exceeded those of friendship, I wanted another life with quiet desperation. I wanted to dream other dreams. I wanted to change my name, give everything away.

And I would still give it all away. For a memory, a quiet lie.

Love. It’s a lie. An illusion. The future of an illusion isn’t so much religion as it is love and the persistence thereof.

Get it completely right, Freud, you berk. Religion is an illusion but it isn’t religion that’s keeping us from killing one another off in an attempt to survive, it’s love. We kill or don’t kill one another over love. We hurt or don’t hurt one another in the name of love. Emotionally, mentally, physically, for love of beauty, for love of a man or woman, for love of a coveted item or ideal, we do it because of love.

Ah, yes. This is where my little confession takes a turn for the maudlin. I must warn you now of this.

No, I am not drunk. I almost wish that I were. It would be easier then. This, this would all make sense then, if I were arseholed.

**ˆž**

**Love...it mocks** me. Taunts me. Like the moon on high. With her pale face gazing at me, staring at me, dispassionately, on a cold tonight.

I had to leave my love behind. My feelings. My emotions. They died on the Dark Night. My love for Lily perished in Godric’s Hollow. My kinship with James died there as well. My heart was rendered broken by Sirius. My friend, Padfoot, perhaps the greatest of us all, thought that I had been the one who was informing Voldemort of the Potters’ movements. My friend, Black, perhaps my best friend, seemed to be the very one who had murdered Peter Pettigrew and had taken innocents with him.

I haven’t cried since the Dark Night. Not even when it was revealed that Sirius was innocent, that he didn’t betray James and Lily, that he didn’t kill Peter, that it was Wormtail, Pettigrew, who had been the betrayer.

Not Sirius.

Not me.

Not entirely.

Only in thought. Never in deed.

I used to cry. I would not allow myself to feel anger; I would shed tears in anger’s stead.

I know the pain of leaving everything far behind.

If I could cry again, if I could live with the truth of it and with my sins, venial and mortal, if I could live with what I did and didn’t do then...if there was a way, I would ask that I be taken there. To back then. To back when I still believed in heaven and was still able to cry.

When I still loved, even though it was wrong, even though it was impossible. Even though Lily and James loved one another.

When I still cried.

When I still believed in childish ideas and in three impossible things before breakfast.

No, I am not the Fisher King, but my memories and my guilt act as Sir Percivale and they cause me unnecessary pain. I am not the Fisher King; I am merely the Kingfisher Boy. With a heart that is altricial in nature, the walking wounded, bereft of sanctifying beliefs, of the relief of tears. Singing the same song for the last sixteen years, singing to those I have lost, singing, _wish you were here_.

I wish I remembered how to believe.

I wish I remembered how to cry.

I wish I could forget how I loved a girl.

I wish the memories and the secrets would fade. I wish my false hope in heaven would dissipate, would finally die.

Heaven, goodbye.

 

**”**


End file.
